


lover boy

by stardazed_daydreams



Series: just another love story [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale's Bookshop, Canon Compliant, Character Study, First Kiss, First Love, Forbidden Love, Friends to Lovers, Heavy Drinking, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, POV Aziraphale, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, Sort Of, a lot of insight about love, it’s implied, sort of soft and sort of sad, well as slow of a burn as a one-shot can be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-02 07:15:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19194244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardazed_daydreams/pseuds/stardazed_daydreams
Summary: “Am I going too fast?” he asks, hesitant yet yearning.“You never really were,” Aziraphale responds, and coiling his fingers firmly around Crowley’s jaw, he closes the gap.





	lover boy

**Author's Note:**

> special thanks to my betas, [@simon—speaks](https://simon--speaks.tumblr.com/) and [@fandomtrashkid](https://fandomtrashkid.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.

Humans have always been romantics. For almost as long as they've existed, they have waxed poetic about each others' eyes or lips or... sexual organs. Love was the driving force behind many human stories, the thing that started wars and ended them. Personally, Aziraphale had never understood it. He could sense it, of course, feel when it was near, but that didn't really help him in his quest to discern the meaning behind humanities' devotion to one another.

But looking now at the demon next to him, Aziraphale thinks he understands.

It's such a simple image, and one he's seen countless times before; Crowley, sitting on a park bench next to him, face framed in the soft mid-morning light as he complains about one nuisance or another. But something's changed. Maybe it's the fact that there's no looming threat of the apocalypse, or maybe it's the fact that this is the first time they've really interacted without some danger or the arrangement between them in centuries, but Azirpahale realizes he would do anything for Crowley.

Even if it meant dying.

Even if it meant _falling._

In that moment, Aziraphale would pen a thousand sonnets, sing a million songs, write countless books.

The thought catches his breath in his throat and makes his heart pound in his chest.

In that moment, Aziraphale realizes what the word 'love' means, and it terrifies him.

"So I said, if you think I'm going anywhere _near_ your nasty-ass feet, you've got another thing coming," Crowley is saying as Aziraphale snaps back into reality.

"Y-yes, right," he says, tripping over his words. "Um, listen, terribly sorry, but there's, um, there's been, well, there's been an emergency, and I really must, um, must go. Toodle-oo!"

"Buh-bye, angel," Crowley calls after him, sounding a bit put out, and Aziraphale pushes away the part of him that wilts at the sound.

 

* * *

 

There's a loud knock at his door, fast and impatient. Aziraphale jumps, looking up from his book. "I'm sorry, but we're quite closed," he snipes, glancing briefly at the time.

"Angel, it's me," comes Crowley's voice, muffled by the wood. "Let me in, would you? It's freezing out here."

It really isn't, but Aziraphale has spent the better part of six thousand years observing Crowley, and he knows that the demon has a serpent-like cold-blooded aspect to him, and so he hurries to open the door,  stepping aside to let Crowley in.

He rushes inside, rubbing his arms and hissing quietly. "Bloody rubbish weather," he grumbles.  "Should've moved to California."

"You're welcome," Aziraphale huffs under his breath, and Crowley spins on one heel to face him.

"What was that?" Crowley asks, and Aziraphale flaps his hand dismissively.

"Oh, it's nothing. I don't suppose you'd like a drink?" he asks, crossing to his cabinet and pulling it a bottle of wine and two glasses from it.

"Always, angel," Crowley grins in response, and Aziraphale responds with a blindingly bright smile.

 

* * *

 

It's two hours later, the pair is considerably smashed, and Aziraphale has just finished a long-winded ramble about the most recent book he purchased when he looks over at Crowley and he looks... bored. Of course, not more bored than he usually does, but Aziraphale can't help the blush that paints his cheeks as he blurts, "I'm sorry if I'm boring you."

Ever so slowly, Crowley's head lolls to look at him, one eyebrow raised. "What?" he asks, and Aziraphale barrels on.

"I mean, it's just that- well, it's just that you're a _demon_ and- and I'm sure you've heard more interesting things than- and Gabriel always said my hobbies were boring and-"

Crowley interrupts, smooth and serene and casual. "Fuck Gabriel," he says, and Aziraphale squeaks quietly. "I think your hobbies are charming."

Aziraphale blinks, his fingers curling tighter around the handle of his glass. "Oh," he says finally, the word leaving in a rush of air. "... thank you."

Crowley scowls and shifts, swinging his legs over the arm of his chair and knocking back the rest of his wine. “Yeah, well, don't get used to it,” he says, and he lets his arm hang until the tips of his fingers brush the ground.

Aziraphale clears his throat and rises. "Right, then." He crosses the room to the table with the wine bottles on it, pausing by Crowley. "More wine, dear?"

“Please,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale takes the proffered glass, refilling them both. He gives Crowley's back and returns to his chair in a new sort of silence, the sort that grows until it fills the whole room.

Crowley shifts a few more times, drinking his wine and grumbling as time slips by. Finally, he groans, arching his back and tossing his glass to the floor. It bounces once, but doesn't shatter, and Aziraphale is thankful for that. "Aziraphalllle," he says, drawing out the word and slurring slightly. “Angel. C'mere.”

Aziraphale sighs and moves over to Crowley, downing the rest of his wine as he goes. "What. What is it?"

" _C'mere_ ," Crowley repeats, squirming until he's sitting upright again. He pats the space on the cushion next to him.

Aziraphale sighs again, but complies, climbing up onto the chair and tucking his legs up to his chest. He's hyper-aware of every place Crowley's touching him despite his unnerving lack of body heat. "Happy?" He asks, and Crowley scoffs, pushing at his knees until he's forced to put them down, nearly kicking over his empty wine glass.

Crowley _hmphs_ and squirms again until he's facedown in Aziraphale's lap, his glasses discarded on the floor next to their wine glasses and legs hanging off the chair.

"This is ridiculous," Aziraphale huffs, and Crowley shushes him, placing a finger over Aziraphale's mouth.

"Mmm. Warm. Too drunk for big words," he says.

"Oh, all right," Aziraphale grumbles, but he runs his fingers through Crowley's hair, despite his better judgement.

There's another few minutes of silence, but _this_ silence is warm and pleasant, and Aziraphale's thoughts drift in no particular hurry from one subject to another before settling on the demon in his lap.

"My dear?" Aziraphale asks, carding his fingers through Crowley's hair and stilling them.

"Mm?" Crowley rolls over onto his back to look up at him, hair mussed and serpentine eyes bleary. The sight makes Aziraphale's heart skip a beat in his chest, and he takes a moment to collect himself before continuing.

"Isn't this a bit... weird?" he asks, smoothing Crowley's hair back down.

"Isn't _what_ a bit weird, angel?" Crowley shoots  back, rolling his eyes.

"Us," Aziraphale says simply.

Crowley pauses a moment, then laughs bitterly. "Of course it's weird, angel. You and me, best of friends? Couldn't be weirder." He grabs his glasses from the floor and slides them back on.

"That's not what I meant," Aziraphale says, but his words fall in empty air, because Crowley is already gone.

 

* * *

 

When you look up _love_ in the dictionary, it says the following:

 

_love (n)- an intense feeling of deep affection._

  * __to like very much; find pleasure in.__



 

Aziraphale doesn't think that quite covers it. You can have ‘intense feelings of affection’ about almost anything- from a book to crepes to a very loyal pet. But when someone says "I love you", they are giving the recipient something special, something to be cherished. They are exposing a part of themselves, something vulnerable and so completely human.

"Gone native, indeed," Aziraphale mutters to himself, drawing the attention of a nearby customer.

"Excuse me?" she asks.

"Oh, sorry, just, um, just talking to myself," he says, and she looks at him strangely for a moment longer before going back to the book in her hands.

 _I love you_ . The thought rests heavy on his breastbone, and Aziraphale takes a deep breath as he retires to behind the counter, staring blankly at his book. Love is a powerful thing, a _pure_ thing, and it's completely unthinkable that Crowley would ever return his affections. If he thinks about it, _really_ thinks about it, Aziraphale can pinpoint the exact moment he fell in love- World War Two, surrounded by the remains of Nazi spies as Crowley handed over a bag full of books as he snarks, “little demonic miracle of my own.”

In almost any other circumstances, such a moment could be considered a grand romantic gesture or an unspoken declaration of love, but Crowley was always so… himself, and it wasn’t out of the ordinary for him at all to do such a thing.

But of course, that’s what makes him perfect.

Aziraphale rings up the woman and continues his reading, hoping that his beloved books will keep his mind off of Crowley.

 

* * *

 

Days drip by. Time has always been a thing that’s hard to pin down, and Aziraphale barely registers the passing of it. He usually measured the distance from one period of time to another as ‘how long has it been since I’ve last seen Crowley’, which has been far more frequent in the past 11 years then it had been in past millennium, and Aziraphale had expected that they’d go back to seeing each other twice a decade after it was over.

But now he can’t help but to wonder. There is no need for arrangements anymore-- Heaven and Hell both seem to be resolutely ignoring the pair after the apocalypse-that-wasn’t, which means there is no miracles expected of them.

There’s a brief moment of unbridled panic, but Aziraphale calms himself down quickly. _Crowley is welcome to come and go as he pleases_ , he reminds himself sternly. _Besides, he wouldn’t come ‘round after the apocalypse if he didn’t want to see you anymore._

Right?

The doubt still pulls at him, but he shakes it off as much as he can, making the short trip down to his bookshop only to find, much to his surprise, that it’s already occupied, Crowley sitting behind the counter with his feet propped up.

“Crowley,” he says, brightening considerably, and the demon looks over to him.

“Oh, Aziraphale, finally,” he says, smiling something wicked. “Care for a spot of lunch? Maybe a picnic?”

Aziraphale blinks and twists his hands together. “W-well, what for?” he asks, almost darking to hope.

Crowley scoffs, swinging his feet off of the counter and sitting up. “What kind of question is that? For fun, angel, why else?”

Aziraphale smiles a little, something unwinding in his chest. “Well, when you put it that way,” he sniffs, secretly pleased.

Crowley grins. “Excellent. Where to?”

Aziraphale pauses. “Well, there is somewhere I’d think you’d like…” he says, and Crowley is already walking towards the door.

 

* * *

 

They’re seated at the mostly empty restaurant, and, fine, Aziraphale is staring a little, but that's to be expected— he wants Crowley to like it… and it’s not like staring is outside of their norm.

“Well?” He asks. “How do you like it?” He struggles to contain his excitement, nearly bouncing on his seat from the anticipation.

Crowley looks around, drinking in the dim lighting and hues of black and red with a satisfied hum. “It’s very good, angel,” he says, and Aziraphale beams proudly

The waiter clears his throat, and Aziraphale jumps. “What can I get you?” The waiter asks, smiling politely.

“Oh! I’ll have the peaches and cream crepes, if you please.” Aziraphale smiles, handing back the menu.

“I’ll have the oysters, and a bottle of champagne for the table, thank you darling,” Crowley says, handing back the menu with a smirk.

“Oysters?” Aziraphale echoes. He stares a little more.

“What?” Crowley gets defensive, locking up and crossing his arms. “They’re good.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale breathes, and warmth blossoms behind his breastbone. He drops his gaze as his face warms, resolutely ignoring the waiter as he returns, setting the glasses and champagne.

“Some champagne for the happy couple,” the waiter says, and begin pouring. Of course, they aren’t a couple, but Aziraphale can see why he’d think so. He doesn’t protest, simply muttering a simple “thank you” and waiting for Crowley to make a scene.

The waiter walks away, without so much as a word from the demon.

Aziraphale looks up, heart thundering in his ears and face flushing even warmer.

Crowley huffs, lifting his glass of champagne. “To a good meal?” he asks with a lazy smirk.

“To a good meal,” Aziraphale echoes, and they down their champagne in synchronization.

 

* * *

 

“Well, wasn’t that splendid?” Aziraphale asks as they walk back to his shop, beaming over at Crowley.

At first, Crowley looks unimpressed, but he softens quickly. “It was wonderful, angel,” he says, and Aziraphale preens a little at that. “What now?”

“Oh, well-” Aziraphale can think of a million things for them to do together, but he simply closes his mouth, looking at Crowley with a sort of feigned confusion. “We just… go home, I suppose.”

And maybe he imagines it, but Crowley seems to wilt a little, some confidence ebbing away in his nonchalant response. “Right, well. See you later, then,” he says, and they come to a stop in front of Aziraphale’s shop.

“Right,” Aziraphale agrees, and watches Crowley get into the Bentley and drive away.

It hurts a little bit, but it stings like a win.

* * *

 

It’s another late night when Crowley turns up again, this time forgoing the formality of knocking and simply miracling his way in, stamping over to Aziraphale’s sofa and faceplanting on it, grumbling as he wraps himself in the blanket on it.

Aziraphale doesn’t look up from his book, simply sighing a little. “Hello to you too, Crowley.”

“Mmmph,” Crowley replies.

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. “Oh, really?”

Lifting his head up, Crowley starts talking again. “What am I doing wrong?” He asks, and Aziraphale finally looks up from his book.

Aziraphale frowns, brows drawing together at the center. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean,” he says.

“I want to know what I’m doing wrong,” Crowley says, and his voice trembles in such a way that Aziraphale closes is book and leans towards him from across the room, concerned.

“You aren’t doing anything wrong, my dear,” Aziraphale says, attempting to soothe him, but this just makes Crowley spring to his feet, a rather comical feat as he tries to kick his way out of the confines of the blanket.

“And yet there it issss,” Crowley says. He turns, starts to leave, and Aziraphale stands to follow him, confused.

“There _what_ is? Crowley?” Aziraphale follows as he weaves around a bookshelf, feeling a bit like a lost puppy.

“You’re imposssible, Aziraphale,” Crowley says. He begins to walk away in earnest, and Aziraphale has to speed up to stay behind him, nearly tripping over himself as he goes.

“Crowley, wait-” Aziraphale draws up short as Crowley stops, turning to look at him and whipping off his glasses.

“What?” He asks sharply, eyes almost literally blazing. “Am I sssstill going too fassst? _Am I going too fast for you_ , _angel_?” Aziraphale can’t move. He can barely breathe. “Six thousand years,” Crowley spits.  “Six thousand years and I’m not sssslow enough for you. Six thousssssand years of your ‘my dear’s and your crepes and your sssstupid face-” Aziraphale’s brow crinkles in confusion, but Crowley barrels on. “I waited ssssix thousand years for you, angel, well, I’ve waited long enough.”

Aziraphale freezes for a moment that feels like eternity. “How dare you,” he says when he finds his voice, quiet, but rising in volume as he continues.  “How _dare_ you twist my words in such a way? You think you’re above me? You think I’m doing this to hurt you? Six thousand years of hints, six thousand years and you still haven’t a clue!” Aziraphale is angry, really angry, a sort of righteous fury rising in him the likes of which he hasn’t felt since- well, time wasn’t invented yet, was it? “How dare you barge in here and accuse me of these things and still call me your angel?” As soon as the words leave his mouth, it’s over- the fury drains from him as fast as it arose, and Aziraphale slumps like a puppet with its strings cut.

Crowley looks at him for a long moment, face blank and impassive. “I won’t even think of you,” he says, his words a terrible echo of the ones said only a week before. He puts on his glasses and spins on his heel, marching for the door.

“Wait-” Aziraphale reaches out, the tips of his fingers just barely missing the fabric of his jacket. “Crowley, I’m sorry, I-” he panics and shuts down, all reasoning and logic leaving him in the space of a moment as Crowley pulls open the door to his bookshop.

The words twist out on an exhale, pushing past his lips unbidden and unwelcome. “I love you,” he breathes, soft and desperate.

Crowley turns, sharp around the edges and silhouetted against the night sky. He doesn’t move, unreadable. “What?” He asks, still frozen in place, staring.

“I said-” Aziraphale stops. Swallows. A breeze blows in, accompanied by a loud honk, but neither being pays it any mind. “I said I love you,” he says.

The knob slips from Crowley’s fingers.

For a long, terrible moment, Crowley's still frozen, but then he moves in a flash, and Aziraphale thinks he’ll yell or slam him against the wall again but he just curls his fingers into Aziraphale's jacket, head dropping to his shoulder.

The door slams shut.

“Ssssay it again,” he says, voice trembling. “Please, say it again-” he breaks off, grip tightening, and Aziraphale pulls him closer, letting his eyes fall closed.

“I love you,” he repeats and Crowley melts into him with a soft noise as his hands travel down Crowley's sides to rest at his waist. “I love you,” he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to the side of Crowley's head. “I really do, my dear.”

Crowley makes another noise, almost like a whimper, and buries his face into the junction of his neck and shoulder. He mumbles something, and Aziraphale pulls him away, fingers tracing his jaw. “What was that, dear?” he asks.

“I didn’t mean it,” Crowley says, wild and desperate. “I said I wouldn’t think of you, but that was a lie, because you’re all I think about, angel, you’re all I want.”

“I know,” Aziraphale soothes, and Crowley relaxes a little. “I know you didn’t, dear,” he repeats, and Crowley relaxes a little more.

“And you know... I-” He can’t say it for a moment, throat constricting as if it burns, and maybe it does, maybe a demon saying such a thing to an angel is too pure to bear, his biology preventing it, but Crowley powers through it. “I love you too,” he says, and he leans forward, a hair’s breadth away from Aziraphale’s lips. “Am I going too fast?” he asks, hesitant yet yearning.

“You never really were,” Aziraphale responds, and coiling his fingers firmly around Crowley’s jaw, he closes the gap.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on tumblr [@did-i-go-too-fast-for-you](https://did-i-go-too-fast-for-you.tumblr.com/).
> 
> feel free to kudos/comment if you enjoyed~


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